


Fiiranza

by oorsprong



Series: Second Honeymoon [7]
Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Backstory, Character Development, Gen, Jedi, Jedi Code, M/M, Mutual Pining, Non-Graphic Violence, Origins, Poisoning, Subterfuge
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-03
Updated: 2016-08-13
Packaged: 2018-07-19 18:16:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7372405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oorsprong/pseuds/oorsprong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I just don’t know how much more I can teach her.  Her form is improving and her skill with the blade is impressive.  But I’m running out of ways to improve that skill.  If you would let me teach the Sith forms--”</p><p>“Out of the question.  We are Jedi.”</p><p>You’ll never be a Jedi, Traska wanted to protest.  Wisely, he kept his mouth shut, more out of defeat than his love for the elder Fiiranza.  Weren’t they all entitled to their own delusions? </p><p>***</p><p>Kylo Ren and Hux come up against an enemy they were never prepared to face.  Here is the story of Fiiranza.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Traska

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  

She was born, if you could call it that, on a storm drenched island on Bakura.  Fiiranza Four wrapped the child in the soft skin of a butchered ungulate and placed her in the arms of her tutor.

 

“We thank the Balance for taking the life needed to sustain this child,” he murmured.  “And hope for the gentle passing of the one who perished to give her life.”

 

Fiiranza Four scoffed at him.  “You won’t be teaching us that superstitious drivel.”

 

The tutor, an old Bothan named Traska with ragged ears and a generous cushion of fat around his middle, only purred at the small creature in his arms.

 

Within two years she was ready to begin the training.  Traska presented the child; now at the size and dexterity level of a human twice her age, with a fine practice ‘saber from the temple in Aldera.

 

“Someday you will build your own, but first you must learn to fight.  The beam is solid but it cannot harm you.  I want you to familiarize yourself with the mechanism.”

 

The child stared at him, dark eyes impassive.

 

“Do you understand me, Dearheart?”

 

“Yes, Sir,” she said, her command of her own voice and expressions eerie even to one who had spent a great deal of time with Fiiranza Four.

 

The elder Fiiranza came up behind the child and placed a hand on her shoulder, squeezing it fondly.

 

“She understands.  You underestimate us.  I don’t know how Bothan children behave but her behavior will be atypical even of human children.  I was much the same at her age.  It’s part of the accelerated growth process.”

 

Traska filed this information away and made a note to test the child’s retention on his own, regardless.  Fiiranza Four often thought herself above other humans but the old Bothan knew better.  Miracle of modern technology or no, the child was still a child.  She would learn best through repetition.  

 

A year later her finesse and agility matched that of the average six-year-old human.  She could read and even write a little.  He began instruction in the lore from the eight sources that made up his most valuable possessions.  The books-- real books, not holos, paid for in years of hard labor in the Bakuran mines-- comprised the sum of his teachings.  The first two the Jedi would have used for reference only, having the oral tradition at their disposal.  Traska, like Fiiranza Four, had met real Jedi only handful of times over the course of his long life.  The other six were a hodgepodge of theory written by objective sources, Sith texts, and a beautifully illustrated book of Jedi legends that probably belonged in a museum.  Fiiranza Four loved that book in particular and re-read it often.

 

The child now called the tutor “Master”, much to his annoyance.  Fiiranza Four encouraged it.

 

“Tell Master Traska what you learned today,” the elder Fiiranza would demand of the child.  All her instruction in writing and personal history happened in the evening when Traska was done with his lessons.  He remembered his own carefree childhood in the days of the Republic, when life had been good for wandering Bothans and their families, and wished the child would be given time to play.

 

Another year passed before the younger Fiiranza was permitted access to the first two books.  She had many questions, all of them pointed and difficult for Traska to answer.  A Jedi Master would have given the right answer or redirected the question.  Traska could only flounder with half-truths.  

 

“How can a person be strong in the Force if the Force is a philosophy?”

 

“They are speaking of personal devotion,” the Bothan explained carefully.  Just as Fiiranza Four had instructed.

 

“But here,” the child continued, opening the book carefully to the place she’d marked with a ribbon, “it says that strength in the Force permitted the Jedi Master Darar clearer visions of the future than the others on the council.”

 

“The Jedi prefer poetry and clever turns of phrase.  I’ve explained this many times, Dearheart.  Visions refer to logical strategies employed by the old Masters to predict how events might unfold.”

 

“They can’t _really_ see the future?”

 

“Foresight is given to a few races in the galaxy.  But it’s a rare gift.  The Jedi are people like you and I, but more disciplined.”

 

“But who invented the Force?”

 

The question startled him.  “What ever do you mean?”

 

The child slowed her speech as though speaking to someone who couldn’t keep up with her and not the other way around.  

 

“If the Force is a philosophy and a method then someone came up with the method.  Who was it?”

 

“It’s very ancient.  We simply don’t know.”  He fought to keep his expression neutral but the rippling of his fur betrayed him.

 

“Why are you angry, Master Traska?”

 

“I’m--” he considered denying it but the younger Fiiranza was as shrewd as the elder and already showed signs of being even more formidable.

 

“I’m frustrated that you are easily so distracted by these details.  I have tried to teach you not to take these words at face value.  Your penchant for literal thinking interferes with your training.  Remember that the Jedi of old were originally a religious order.  They were mystics and their deeds were exaggerated by the legends.  When the books say that a Jedi influences the mind of a person to bend it to their will, what are they really describing?”

 

The child recited as if by rote: “They are good at diplomacy.  But what about the stories of Jedi lifting things with only the power of their minds?” she added.

 

Traska had never developed a suitable explanation for this.  He’d been tempted to shrug it off as a simple myth but the accounts were too detailed.

 

“Sleight of hand,” he said, wracking his brain for anything to back that statement up and finding himself, not for the first time, horribly unprepared for the task Fiiranza Four had given him.

 

The child seemed to accept this.  

 

“When I am a Jedi will I be able to trick people into thinking I can move things with my mind?”

 

“I don’t know, Fiiranza.  But that’s not really the point, is it?  We must focus on self-control and physical combat.  Remember that the Jedi are warriors, first and foremost.”

 

Later he sought out Fiiranza Four and confessed his doubts.

 

“I just don’t know how much more I can teach her.  Her form is improving and her skill with the blade is impressive.  But I’m running out of ways to improve that skill.  If you would let me teach the Sith forms--”

 

“Out of the question.  We are Jedi.”

 

 _You’ll never be a Jedi,_ Traska wanted to protest.  Wisely, he kept his mouth shut, more out of defeat than his love for the elder Fiiranza.  Weren’t they all entitled to their own delusions?  

 

Traska had a special relationship with the lightsaber.  There were still a few places in the galaxy where the ancient weapon was taught to the forceblind and when he’d lived with his mother on Alderaan he’d spent all his free time at the small academy in the capital for devoted followers of the practice.  If the Jedi thought this strange they didn’t interfere.  Some even deigned to practice with the school’s own masters though they wouldn’t take lessons there.  Traska had never had the honor of sparring with one.  Aldera was an old city with it’s own established traditions, existing in some form or another even before the Alderaanian people had taken to space-faring, if the legends were true.  Up until shortly before his birth even the royal family had instructed the princes and princesses of the blood in the art of the weapon.  Before the Michandera dynasty had been bred out by House Organa their love of the ancient forms had been so excessive that they’d attempted to establish other academies solely to train lightsaber enthusiasts in remote regions of the planet.  

 

He could teach the child the methods he’d learned from his masters and the forms preferred by the Jedi, but it would be better to round out her training with the Sith forms.  They were far more eloquent than anything else he could teach her.

 

“What’s the harm?” he’d asked Fiiranza Four, when she was merely the living Fiiranza, before the child came.

 

“We are Jedi.  We are not Sith.  That is not our path.”

 

He couldn’t see the logic in this and had attempted to explain his reasoning.  “If she can’t use the Force, then what’s the harm?”

 

He’d learned very quickly never to breach the topic again.

 

At age six the younger Fiiranza could hold her own in a sparring match.  She and Fiiranza Four practiced together under his watchful eye.  He’d only perfected the elder’s form.  She was a natural.  He supposed some genetic element could be responsible for that but how did you predispose someone to such a refined practice?  Fine motor skills.  Dexterity.  Strength.  Maybe…

 

News of unrest reached Bakura.  The rebel terrorists had struck out against the Empire in their most public display of insubordination yet.  Alderaan paid the price.  He spent the nights grieving and pulling out his fur in clumps.  Fiiranza Four tried to console him but she wasn’t built for empathy.  The child who had occasionally crawled into his bed to curl up against him when she was very small had outgrown the need for comforting.  Living in close confines with these two humans he was more alone than he’d ever been before and began to harbor treacherous thoughts towards the task he’d be set to.  What was Fiiranza, after all?  Whoever had started the project had surely not intended this subterfuge.  The Balance would deal with wrongdoing harshly, even wrongdoing in ignorance.  Traska had grown attached to the beliefs of the Bakuran people and adopted them with the simple faith that every Bakuran child had.  

 

Perhaps if he’d been permitted to impart that faith to the younger Fiiranza things would have turned out quite differently.

 

The next blow against the Empire marked a turning point.  The phrase, “Galactic Civil War,” had been coined by the media.  As though it were a proper war and not the lucky blows of an outgunned band of vigilantes deeply loyal to the idea of the old Republic.  Traska had never been a rebel sympathizer.  He held no personal stakes one way or another but believed political upheaval to be inevitable; stability an illusion.  What did it matter who ruled from afar?  Personal integrity, family, loyalty; these were the important things in life.  Trust the Balance would sort out the rest.

 

Meanwhile, the child began to ask questions he simply had no answers to.  He deferred to the elder Fiiranza, feeling his age more keenly than ever before.

 

“Master,” the child said-- though not really a child, Fiiranza Four predicted she would enter puberty soon, “Where are the Jedi who taught you?”

 

“On Alderaan,” he said sadly.  The bald patches on his neck had not quite filled in and he rubbed at one self-consciously.  

 

“What were their names?”

 

He’d prepared himself for this.

  
  
“Master Wiongi, Master Ov, and Master Patluu were the most involved in my training.  I would have served as Padawan to Master Patluu if I’d stayed.

 

“Where were they from?”

 

“Masters Wiongi and Ov were both from Coruscant; humans.  Master Patluu was a Drall.”

 

“How old was he?”

 

“Oh, I don’t know, I suppose he was in his fifties when he attained the rank of Master.”

 

“And why did you leave the Jedi?”

 

“I was young and foolish.  I was lucky to find your--” he’d been about to say mother and stopped himself.  “I was lucky to find you,” he said instead.

 

“And how long were you at the Temple on Aldera?”

 

“Dearheart, why do you ask me these questions?”

 

“To see if you’ll keep your story straight,” the child said simply, sending a chill through him.  He stared, unable to control the frantic ripping of his fur as he fought to respond to the accusation.

 

“That is a terrible thing to say to your Master, young Fiiranza.”

 

“You’re not really a Master.  I want to go to the Temple on Coruscant to be trained by a real Master.”

 

“Fiiranza!” the elder snapped, choosing that moment to appear.  “How dare you question Master Traska.  He’s risked his life to impart this knowledge to us.  You know we were ostracized by the Jedi on Coruscant.”

 

“You’re a liar,” the child said simply before walking away.  The elder Fiiranza hurried after her and Traska sagged slightly, watching them go.  She _knew._  How?  And what dangerous game was Fiiranza Four playing at?  He sat up late into the night drinking the weak tea he favored and lamenting his choice to aid Fiiranza in this foolishness.  He would appeal to her tomorrow.  Surely she could be made to see reason.

 

He licked at his suddenly dry mouth and stared in confusion at the dregs of the tea.

 

A moment later the teacup dropped from his shaking hands and he doubled over in pain.  The last thought he had before succumbing to a violent seizure was to berate himself for trusting either of them.   

 


	2. Koralo

Koralo stares in deep dissatisfaction at the front of the cheap motel under the pale yellow glow of streetlamps flanking the entrance.  Salis D’aar boasts the nicest luxury hotels on Bakura but although he can afford the price, the true cost-- a threat to his anonymity-- is more than he’s willing to pay.  This ramshackle motel’s cash-only policy makes it a magnet for undesirables and that’s the identity he’ll have to take if he wants to make it off world unscathed.

 

The garish decor of the lobby almost makes him smile.  He might mistake it for a tourist spot were it not for the two whores lounging on couches under the baleful eye of the night clerk.  The woman; a violet-skinned humanoid with a mouthful of needle-like teeth, wears the half-black, half-white ring that symbolizes the Cosmic Balance on a cord around her neck.  A silver ring with an overlapping pattern curls into a hole drilled into the helix of her ear; one of the universal indicators of an Outer Rim sex worker.  Her companion; a boy with stiff black hair done up in intricate coils, flashes a gleaming grin at him.  He winces and turned away.  

 

“I need a room for two nights,” Koralo tells the clerk, trying to sound unconcerned about the whole affair.

 

“Cash up front,” the clerk says, barely glancing at him.

 

The transaction ends when a key card is pushed across the desk.  Koralo takes it and adjusts the lone bag he’s brought.  He heads for the lift in the hall when the boy calls after him.

 

“Wait up, Mister.”

 

Against his better judgement he pauses and then throws a disbelieving glance at the boy who is standing behind him with the same ingratiating grin.

 

“If you need anything, ask for Oli.  I’m here every night.”

 

“No thanks,” Koralo says stiffly.  “I’m not interested in that.”

 

“Oh… because of _her?”_  He jerks a thumb back towards the violet-skinned woman.  “Naw, she’s a client of mine.  I don’t do that anymore.”

 

“Anymore?” Koralo asks, horrified despite himself.  “How old are you?”

 

“Don’t you know anything about Bakura, friend?  You can live forever if you have the money.  I will, anyway.”  He approaches, swaying in a way that makes Koralo wonder if he’s really given up the trade.  “I was born just after the Battle of Jakku.”

 

Maybe five years after, he thinks cynically.  

 

“And what are you selling, _Oli?”_

 

“Medicine.  Sometimes information.  Depends who’s buying, really.”

 

“So this bit works for you, then?  Approaching strangers and offering to hook them up to black market trade?”

 

Oli’s grin grows wider and he scratches at the back of his neck with one skinny brown hand and makes a clucking noise in the back of his throat.

 

“That’s an easy mistake to make, thinking I’m vulnerable here.  But you see that hot piece over there?  I’ve seen her disembowel a gundark in the ring.  What do you think she could do to you?”

 

“Point taken.  I’m not interested.”

 

“We’ll see.  Maybe you’re here to meet someone.  All kinds of people to meet in this part of town.  And if they don’t turn out for you then you give Oli a call.  I trade fair.  Good information for a good price.  Think about it, friend.”

 

Koralo shrugs him off and turns away but the boy reaches for him, grabbing his arm.  Shocked, he slaps it away.

 

“Unhand me!”

 

“Keep your voice down.”  The boy’s face turns hard in an instant.  “You don’t want to draw attention to this conversation.  I’m telling you for your own good, my friend.  I may not know who you are but I know _what_ you are and I also know a few higher ups in the First Order who would be very interested to find out a former officer had come calling.”

 

They stare at each other long enough for the silence to grow uncomfortable.

 

“I’ll offer you something right now if you tell me how you know that,” Koralo says finally.

 

“Oh, I’ll give you that one for free.  It’s your bearing.  The way you walk.”  Oli gives him a once over and breaks into another grin.  “You’re not just any soldier.  You were in command.  That means you’ve got money to spend and _that_ means I’m your man.”

 

“Hm.  Well.  I’ll think about it.”

 

The boy relaxes and that alarms him for a reason he can’t quite place.

 

“Good.  Always happy to trade a favor.”

 

Koralo nods and turns around, forcing himself not to look back at the boy, show any hint of interest.  The smartest idea would be to walk out of here and take the quickest transport offworld but he can’t do that.  Someone is counting on him.  The one one who matters to him anymore.

 

He takes the lift up to the third floor and spends the next half hour checking his room for recording devices.  When he finally settles down in the meager bed his thoughts drift to the conversation that led to his covert flight to Bakura.

 

_“I doubt he’ll be there but perhaps he’ll have left a trail.  It’s hard to believe a Bothan would still be alive at that age.”_

 

_“Fiiranza doesn’t know if he’s alive or not, only that if he’s alive he’s there.  She has memories of this Bothan.  They didn’t seem important before.  But, Brell… this isn’t straightforward.  Something’s wrong I just don’t know what it is.”_

 

They’d talked it over all night but he remained resolute that he would be the one to go.  Ren was too much of a target and his presence anywhere would arouse suspicion.  Hux-- _Koralo_ , he reminds himself-- Koralo is a nobody.  No past, no future, no one he loves at stake.  Who looks twice at a mercenary on Bakura?  Who will get in his way?  

 

He’d been spotted for the soldier he used to be but he is by no means an easy mark.  The disguise just needs to be perfected.  

 

His thoughts drift back in a direction he isn’t keen on going.  A hastily boarded ship from Kheel’s capital.  Ren’s hands on his shoulders as they said their goodbyes.  The way his knight mumbled a shy, _“love you,”_ against his cheek before kissing it, his eyes betraying his otherwise stoic demeanor.  

 

Koralo the mercenary has no reason to turn his face into the pillow and call up the memory of strong arms around him in the middle of the night.  Koralo has never been softened by the small comforts of a happy and fiercely fought for marriage.  He drifts into a troubled sleep.

 

***

 

The presence in his room registers a moment after he blinks awake.  Adrenaline shoots through his body as he pushes off the bed and rolls to the floor, fighting to catch his breath and order his thoughts.

 

An impossibly slender hand shoots out from under the bed and grabs his ankle.  He barely bites back the urge to scream as the thud of boots from the hallway reaches his ears.  The thing that has a hold on him drags him under the bed and he’s face to face with a living horror; a pair of glowing blue eyes that fix on his, a mouth split by rows of sharp teeth.  A bony finger presses against the terrifying rictus of a smile in the universal symbol for _shush_.

 

Heart pounding, he stares, uncomprehending, at the face in front of him and realizes it’s the violet-skinned whore from downstairs just as the door bursts open, sending light from the hallway into the room.

 

Footsteps approach the bed and the humanoid who has him in her grasp slips her arms around him and pulls him close in a bizarre embrace.  He sees a pair of boots pause inches from his face, turn in a tight circle, and then exit the room.

 

Koralo squeezes his eyes shut, heart pounding.  When he opens them again the whore is peering at him curiously.  She touches his face, his beard.

 

“First Order?” she asks, her voice deep and heavy with an accent he cannot place.

 

“Who the hell are you?” Koralo hisses.

 

“Nivivi.  Oli’s friend.  Your friend.”

 

“Who was just in my room?”

 

“More First Order.”

 

“Is it safe to come out?”

 

“Not yet.  You wait.”

 

Koralo’s gaze darts around the small space.  The glowing eyes must be a trait of whatever species this Nivivi is.  They’re slightly smaller and rounder than a human’s might be.  She smells of floral perfume laid thickly over some metallic scent he can’t place.  Koralo knows his relief must be visible when she unhands him and skitters out from under the bed like a strange insect.

 

“What the hell just happened?”

 

“Enemies.  I shield you.”

 

Before Koralo can ask the question on the tip of his tongue Nivivi beckons with a long finger and peers out into the hall.

 

“Can’t stay.  Come with me.”  

 

He follows her into the hall with his carryall in his arms, utterly vulnerable.  Internally he’s still processing the events and they don’t make any sense.  Why would the the intruder stop after a cursory glance around the room.  Why wouldn’t someone looking for him check under the bed?  What was the shield his strange companion spoke of?

 

“I don’t know you and I don’t trust you,” Koralo says curtly, “so you’d better start explaining yourself.”

 

“Oli explains.  You follow.”

 

In the harsh light of the hall her eyes return to an unremarkable murky color.  Whatever species she is she’s uncommonly graceful, stepping soundlessly in her long strides.  He rushes to catch up with her and she takes him through an unmarked door and down a staircase-- presumably a back entrance.

 

Outside the air is heavy with the smell of rain.  They emerge into an alley paved in wet cobblestones.  The whore isn’t even wearing any shoes but her broad feet and webbed toes seem to grip the ground as she walks.  Koralo wears unlaced boots and he pauses to tighten them before following her into the dark.

 

This is not smart but what choice does he have?

 

“Come.  Hurry.”

 

To his shock she bends over and begins to run on all fours so that he struggles to keep up.  Her limbs adapt to the loping gait immediately, distracting him in the momentary fascination that the joint in her legs bends backwards as well as forwards.  And so do her arms, apparently.  

 

The streets are nearly deserted but they encounter a few curious stares as they rush through a narrow intersection and along the side of a low building where a transport is parked.

 

“Hey there, friend.”  Oli calls from the transport.  

 

“I’m not your friend!” Koralo snaps.  “I’m cold and confused and if you don’t tell me what’s going on this instant I’m going to--”

 

“Do what?” a new voice rasps behind him.

 

He whirls around to find himself face to face with a Bothan male.  The creature standing before him looks impossibly ancient.  Dark bags hang beneath clouded over eyes and silver-grey fur balds in a random pattern all over his decrepit body.

  
“General Hux,” the Bothan says, fixing blind eyes on Koralo.  “Welcome to Bakura.”


	3. Kylo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you kindly to you, you know who you are, for giving this a look with fresh eyes when I needed it most. Your advice was spot on and I much appreciate it.
> 
> ***
> 
> [Here](http://katherine1753.tumblr.com/post/148752669179/for-my-dearest-gentleman-caller-3-for-luck-with) is a source for Katherine's artwork, she is amazing, please check out her tumblr!

 

This is the first time Kylo has ever been alone on Kheel.  It’s cold in the open market and he’s bundled up in the warmest clothes he has: corded trousers, a heavy sweater, a wool coat in nondescript black, and a thin scarf worn as a balaclava keep him an anonymous face in the crowd.  Though he’s taken to wearing a mask only for official occasions he still feels strangely naked with his face bare.  In the summer he dons a flimsy black veil beneath his eyes when he and Hux go to the market.  It’s not an uncommon sight in the capital.  Hux likes to kiss him through the sheer fabric, enjoying feel of silk between their lips.

 

He _aches_ from the memory; a sweet dull thud in the back of his head, his groin, his chest.  Like a physical sickness.  Six months apart hadn’t done this to him because Hux was safe.  Locked away like a treasure-- Kylo’s treasure.   _Usivvarill_ , the pet name Hux whispered to him as they lay entangled in one another’s arms, described Hux, too, for Kylo.

 

He tugs gently on the chain around his neck, winds a finger in it, like Hux would to draw him close.  He imagines Hux taking him aside in the deserted alley and hooking the chain around a delicate finger.  His drawing-chain.  Belonging-chain.  Hux has nothing on his person to remind him of his husband, so Kylo gave him a love-bite on the base of his neck and another on his chest and still another on the soft curve of his ass to replace the mark that had healed.  Hux pretended to be upset in a bid for more kisses; one on each spot.  

 

Even more than he misses the physical he misses Hux’s company.  Misses having someone to talk to.  On Leviathan there is no one.  Not even Snoke, now that his training is complete.  Nor has he ever had friends.

 

He pushes the wistful thoughts away and turns back to task, scanning his surroundings.  The informant usually sells her wares at an unassuming stall; potted herbs and rare insects.  Hux spotted her the first month they were planetside together.  At the time his husband begrudgingly credited Fiiranza with doing an adequate job of spying on them, after all, the only tip off was the way she seemed to fixate on Kylo as though she were trying very hard not to look at him.

 

Now he fills with dread at the nagging notion that it had been too easy.  Why hadn’t they looked deeper?  Obviously he hadn’t wanted to.  This place is sacred for him; a place for Hux to belong when he isn’t at his husband’s side.  Just the thought that Fiiranza has infiltrated it so deeply; that they didn’t see the snare until it was too late…

 

A familiar face has him whirling around.  The informant stands at her stall, staring at him.  He strides purposefully through the crowd and she seems to cower, expecting the worst.

 

“Who are you?” he asks when they’re less than a meter apart,  his voice rough from days of disuse.  

 

The woman clears her throat and he sees terror in her eyes, feels it coiling like a snake in her belly.

 

“I’m just an apothecary.”

 

“You work for Fiiranza, don’t lie to me!”

 

He plunges into her mind without a second thought, holding her rigid in his thrall.  Other denizens of the market pass around and between them, but they don’t see the violence in his eyes or the way her body bristles as though an electric current runs through her veins.  

 

The memory ripples up from the murky depths.  When he encountered it before he could only feel around the edges, unwilling to show his hand.  His skill is such that he can idle through a mind without the victim’s knowledge.  She may have felt the resurgence of a traumatic memory and blamed it on stress.  But thoughts taken that way are clouded and fragmented.  These are as clear as a holovid.  Here is Fiiranza in her office on the now defunct Finalizer.  She give a short speech about loyalty to the Order.  Here is a boy with pale eyes and a wan smile.  This is the informant’s son.  He doesn’t even look like her; a foundling who sat in the belly of a dead cargo ship while his family perished on Hosnian Prime.  She took him with the careless design of a child bringing home a stray puppy, raised him in the squalor of Coronet City before stealing away to First Order territory to evade a man to whom she owed money.

 

Kylo toys with the memories, discarding the ones that don’t interest him.  He finds Fiiranza again.  She puts a hand on the boy’s shoulder but there is no warmth there and he can _feel_ the pain of the informant, her overwhelming dread.  The boy has a position waiting for him in the First Order.  If he is competent he will be an officer someday.  And if the informant does as Fiiranza desires she will be permitted to see him from time to time.

 

As a motive it’s almost too convincing and that jars him back into his own thoughts.  He’d seen the fear, the boy, the promise, all in turn like parts of a whole, but the big picture now presented to him doesn’t make sense.  Why not send a spy from within the First Order’s ranks?  Why this miserable wretch with loyalty to nothing and no one but her child?

 

The informant’s nose bleeds steadily and he releases her with a snarl, watching her frail form drop to the ground.  The memory will be irrevocably damaged but she’ll wake up and pull together the pieces of her broken mind enough to limp home.  She’ll make her way back to Fiiranza eventually, he supposes, but he doesn’t care either way.

 

A few people break away from the crowd and rush to the fallen woman’s side as he backs away, blending in with the onlookers as he takes stock of this new information.  Fiiranza blackmailed an untrained informant to spy on Hux.  Perhaps it’s not a bad plan.  Without any history with the First Order she may not even recognize them and that naievety has protected her from projecting any fear that he can pick up.  

 

Something else gnaws at him but he can’t pin it down.  Motive.  Why does it matter why the woman was selected unless he was supposed to see.  Why would he need to see?  To make him suspicious?  To entice him to read deeper instead of brushing it off?

 

_She knows._

 

But how?  Snoke doesn’t even know.  Snoke can’t get to those thoughts anymore, Kylo’s mind is a sealed box, open only to Hux and only by his consent.

 

_She knew I would see the informant after Hux left.  She knew Hux would leave.  She made the motive transparent so I would see her subterfuge._

 

His thoughts run in circles and he winces in disgust.  This way lies madness.  Hux would know but he isn’t here.  He should never have let him go.

 

_Hux would leave and I would follow._

 

It doesn’t make sense but he feels it in his gut, an ugly suspicion that everything is unfolding in accordance with some larger plan.

 

An hour later he’s seated on the transport out of the city, cursing himself for not stealing a speeder when he had the chance.  But no one can be trusted.  Fiiranza is everywhere.  He yanks the covering off his face, feeling as though he’s struggling to breathe.  Meditation might help but it’s too public here.

 

A girl sits on the bench across from him. She’s human, maybe sixteen but not much older.  Her skin is the color of a ripe indolpi pear, so bronze it nearly glows.  She offers him a smile, showing the gap between her teeth, and he flinches.

 

He glances down at the drawing-chain twisted in his fingers, unsure of when he picked it up again.  It’s become his habit of late.

 

“It’s pretty,” the girl says, staring openly at it, and he can sense her lack of guile as she admires it.

 

He touches the chain.  “It was a gift from my bridegroom on our wedding day.  Our formal ceremony,” he amends, heart swelling at the memory.   _My bridegroom._ He’d called Hux that the next morning as he lay with his chin on Kylo’s chest, twining the chain in one hand.  The look he received in return seared into his memory forever, branded on his heart.   

 

The girl makes a little cooing noise, interrupting his train of thought.  He glances up, startled.  Why is he telling this stranger anything?  Is he so desperate for someone to share his thoughts?

 

“It’s sweet,” she says by way of explanation.  Her eyes crinkle.  “Some people say they don’t believe in love.  My man, I’ve been thinking of asking him to marry me,” she adds shyly.  “Do you have any advice?”

 

“What kind of advice?”

 

“You know… how you know he’s the one.  You just know, don’t you?”

 

Kylo drops the chain and leans in. She shifts politely to listen in a way that pleases him, as though he’s been given authority to impart some great secret.  So he does.

 

“Have you ever spilled blood before?”

 

She cocks her head and frowns a little.  “I don’t understand.  You mean have I ever been wounded?  Or is it a metaphor?”

 

“No.  Someday, you’ll see that the galaxy is a collection of lights strung together by chaos.  You’ll lose something precious to you.  If it doesn’t destroy you it will change you profoundly.  You’ll become strong, capable of spilling blood.”

 

The girl is pushing back, giving him distance.  She won’t make the mistake of speaking unguardedly with a stranger ever again.

 

“And if he’s the one to whom you belong then you’ll do it in his name.”


End file.
